Worlds Unseen

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  Nicolas dashed over the docks. He heard the gulls overhead, crying, calling to him. It is close. Run. Run, Boy. Run. Seek safety in the sails.

  Nicolas ran to the end of a wooden dock and jumped into the icy water, pulling Maggie after him. She clutched the edge of the dock and watched him with eyes wide with terror, waiting for him. Cold water soaked her skirts and pulled at her. What next?

  “Can you swim?” he asked. She nodded and began to pull her skirts up to free her legs. “Then come,” he said.

  They let go of the dock and struck out for a small ship that floated silently in the ocean a short way out. The water grew colder as it deepened, and Nicolas heard Maggie gasp for air behind him.

  He heard howling. And the gulls.

  Swim, Boy. Swim.

  He reached the anchor rope and began to pull himself up. He stopped and reached back for Maggie. She took his hand and he pulled her up onto the rope. It was slippery in his hands, but he climbed with all of the strength he could muster. The rope shook with the effort.

  In minutes the two spilled over the rail onto the deck of the ship. For a moment they simply lay there, letting the wood absorb some of the water from their clothes and hair, panting for breath. Nicolas rolled over on his hands and knees as a low, mournful howl made his hair stand on end. He heard water churning.

  It was coming.

  There was a skittering noise, a scratching and chirping and squeaking. Mice and rats exploded out of the doors and hatches on the deck and ran down the sides of the ship to the water. A large mouse stopped and stared at Nicolas, whiskers twitching.

  In the hold. Burning in the hold. Burn it, Boy. Burn the Hound-thing. Burn the Death-thing.

  Nicolas grabbed Maggie’s hand and hauled her to her feet. They stumbled toward the door of the hold. It was dark as pitch below, and Nicolas ran his hands over crates and netting, searching desperately. The ship began to rock as something pulled at the anchor rope.

  He found a box of matches and muttered a blessing on the mice. He lit one, his hands trembling. It illuminated a hold full of dry wooden crates. The floor was littered with rope and straw. In the match light he could see Maggie’s face, drawn and lined with fear. Her eyes burned big and green, and her hair hung in wet strands. Her cap had been lost in the ocean, though the coat still clung to her.

  The boat tipped wildly to starboard as something came up the anchor rope.

  “Girl,” Nicolas whispered hoarsely.

  “My name is Maggie,” she interrupted.

  “Maggie. Go find the lifeboat. Get it into the water and row as fast and as far as you can. If the hound is too close, just jump. Get in the water, understand?”

  “What about you?” she asked.

  “I’ll follow you,” he said. “Just do as I say. Go! Now!”

  She gave him one last, torn glance and disappeared up the ladder onto the deck. He watched her go, imagery of the hound on deck filling him with dread. Tendrils of green smoke were working their way through the floor into the hold.

  Nicolas made a bag with his shirt and stuffed the matchbox into it. Inside an open crate he found six or seven more boxes of matches, all of them full and dry. He added them to the collection and climbed the ladder just as heavy footfalls began to thud across the deck.

  He emerged from the door to see the hound staring at him, moving slowly forward. It seemed unsteady on the rolling deck. Nicolas resisted the urge to look back and make sure Maggie was safe. He was sure that if he took his eyes from the beast, it would be on him in a second.

  It was less a thing of the shadows here and more solid, more real. Green smoke still played around its face, and the stench of death still desecrated the air around it. Its eyes narrowed as Nicolas stood tall before it. A low growl emerged from the thing, and the deck shuddered underfoot.

  Nicolas backed away slowly. The growl rose into the howl of a beast about to finish its hunt. Nicolas turned and ran for the rigging. The beast’s crashing footsteps followed.

  He threw himself up into the ropes, climbing like a madman. Clawed feet tore at the rigging below him. He swayed wildly in the air, still moving upward. Teeth tore at the rigging on deck, and the ropes Nicolas clung to were severed. He swung through the air, releasing the ropes and flying toward the mast.

  He caught hold of the mast and clung to it tightly. Wrapping his legs around the swaying wood, he reached into his shirt and pulled out a box of matches. He struck one furiously, again and again, willing it to ignite. Frustrated, he threw the match away and reached for another. Below, the hound threw its weight against the mast. The whole ship rolled in the waves.

  Another two boxes of matches slipped from Nicolas’s shirt and spun wildly down toward the beast. He held on desperately with his legs, striking a match again and again.

  It lit.

  He threw the match back into the box from whence it had come and watched the whole thing blaze to life. The heat in his hand threatened to burn him, and he threw it at the nearby sail.

  The white cloth burst into flames.

  Still he struck at the matches. The sickening sound of wood splintering filled his ears. In slow motion the mast began to fall, hindered by the rigging all around it.

  He threw another blazing missile as the mast gave way. The matchbox landed on a pile of nets near the hound, and they too flared up. Nicolas reached for a rope as the mast fell, catching it with not a second to spare. He hung by the rope, looking down at the glowing-eyed hound and the blazing nets. The fire was spreading along the deck.

  The flames from the sail ate away at the ropes. A heavy piece of cloth suddenly came down, straight at the hound. In an instant the ship underneath the creature’s black feet was ablaze, its whole world a sudden flaming hell.

  It screamed.

  Out on the water, Maggie heard the scream. She clutched the oars of the lifeboat and watched as the blazing ship collapsed on itself. Gulls swirled overhead like vultures around a dying beast. Their calls sounded the word of victory.

  The ship exploded.

  She buried her face in her sleeve as the waves rocked and tumbled around her. Burning brands landed everywhere around the little boat.

  I’ll follow you, he had said. Just go.

  The gulls were calling again, strange cries. Eight or nine of the birds glided in the air over Maggie’s head, and she lifted a tear stained face in wonder. What were they…?

  “Maggie…”

  The voice was weak, but definitely there. Maggie jumped to her feet, ignoring the precarious swaying of the boat, and rushed to the side. Nicolas was there, reaching out a shaking hand. His face was streaked with soot and sweat, and a burn glowed on his cheek. Maggie grasped his hand and pulled him toward the boat.

  Just before he climbed in, he grinned.

  “We did it,” he said hoarsely as he slid to the bottom of the boat. Maggie threw her coat around him, and he laid his head back and listened to the gulls.

  Won, Boy. You won.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  When They See Beyond the Sky

  Tonight I gazed into the fire to shut out the darkness around me. The flames danced in shapes and whispered words. I, the Poet-Prophet, have seen the future. I have seen the signs of his coming again.

  No one cares! I wander this world and speak of him softly in their ears, but they do not wish to hear. Not to this generation will he return. Already they forget what it was to have him in the world. Already the people of this earth turn to stone, and forget the heart that once beat in their breasts. Cold-hearted creatures of darkness! Without leadership men squabble and fight. They take refuge in tribes and turn against their neighbours, fighting over bits of land and food like starving animals. And even the animals are not what they once were.

  The men of this generation care not what the future holds. Yet I have seen it! I write these words in hope that one day the ice-hearts of men will begin to melt. Then they will read the words of the Prophet, and my words will be to them fuel
to begin a raging fire. In those days the fulfillment of this prophecy will come. The Gifted Ones whom I have seen will walk the earth and awaken it to the King.

  Hear, then, what I have heard:

  When they see beyond the sky,

  When they know beyond the mind,

  When they hear the song of the Burning Light;

  Take these Gifts of My Outstretched Hand,

  Weave them together.

  I shall come.

  * * *

  The fire crackled and warmed Maggie’s face and hands. A brisk breeze had nearly dried out her clothes, although her coat still hung over a tree branch next to Nicolas’s shirt and vest. Beyond the glow of the fire Maggie could just make out the form of her friend, pacing back and forth on top of an old log, now and then jumping and dancing as though he was caught up in a musical sword fight. He was odd, this Nicolas Fisher; but somehow his presence stole all the menace out of the dark shadows of the woods and took all the danger out of their aloneness in an unknown land. He had led Maggie away from the sea and up into the forests as confidently as if he was taking her through his own house. He seemed to belong to the woods, and Maggie was his guest.

  A deep snuffling sound came from somewhere in the trees and made Maggie jump. It was Bear. She could not imagine how the creature had found his way here, but he had, and she relaxed again. His great black form offered protection against the night.

  Maggie looked into the fire until the heat and brightness had burned into her eyes. The stillness of the forest worked itself into her. She raised her head to listen when a bird cried somewhere in the dark vastness around. She sighed and stretched out on the ground next to the fire, gazing up through the treetops to the brilliance of the stars. She had been in Cryneth when last she had seen such stars. In Londren, the ever-present chimney haze kept all but the brightest of the distant fires from sending their light to the world below.

  Nicolas appeared in the firelight and collapsed into a cross-legged heap. The firelight glinted on the gold in his ear and traced strange shadows on his face.

  Maggie rolled over and lifted herself onto her elbows so she could look across the fire at her half-wild friend.

  “Why did you come back?” she asked.

  “You were in danger,” Nicolas said.

  “How did you know?” Maggie pressed. “You said you were going to the forest. You should have been halfway across the city by the time the hound reached the inn. What brought you back?”

  Nicolas sighed, as though he was going to regret opening his mouth. “I heard someone talking… I heard the hound coming after you.”

  “What do you mean you heard it?” Maggie asked.

  Nicolas shrugged, a strange little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I heard voices, and I knew you were in danger. So I went back.”

  “I don’t know anything about voices,” Maggie said, questioningly. “All I saw was the hound. But you couldn’t have… I mean, it’s not possible to…”

  “My ears often hear things that no one else can,” Nicolas said. “It’s a gift.”

  Curiosity rose up in Maggie. The guardedness had gone out of Nicolas’s voice, as though he had let out his secret and didn’t care now how much she knew.

  “What else do you hear?” Maggie asked. “Besides dangerous voices in the dark.”

  “I hear the grass grow,” Nicolas said slowly, “and I hear the stars singing.”

  “They sing?” Maggie asked.

  Nicolas nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I hear other things, too… sometimes I can hear what Bear is saying.”

  Maggie looked up at the hulking form just beyond the glow of the campfire. “Bear talks,” she said flatly.

  “Well, not exactly talks,” Nicolas said. “He feels things, and thinks things, and sometimes I hear what he means.”

  “Does he speak the language of the Empire?” Maggie asked, feeling ridiculous but unable to stop herself from asking.

  “No, of course not,” Nicolas said. “He just feels things, and sometimes I understand them.” Nicolas laughed a little nervously. “That doesn’t make much sense to you, does it?”

  Maggie ignored the question and asked another of her own. “Have you always been able to understand him?”

  “No,” he told her. “When I was a child I would listen to rabbits and squirrels and birds, and it was hard to understand them, too. But I kept listening, and trying to understand, and one day I did. I still don’t understand everything.”

  Maggie felt herself drawn to the strange young man across from her. It was fascinating, what he was saying, perhaps absurd. Yet she believed him.

  “What else can you hear?” she asked, leaning forward with her chin resting in her hand.

  Nicolas’s eyes met hers. How many people had he ever spoken to like this? Who, in all his life, would ever have believed him? Even the Gypsies thought he was mad when he spoke of hearing, although they were not so quick to dismiss it the way others did. They wondered sometimes, if madness was not a gift.

  “When babies cry,” Nicolas said, “I know what they want before their own mothers do. Sometimes I can hear a baby talking while it’s still in its mother’s womb.”

  “What do they say?” Maggie asked, a smile of wonder beginning to tug at her own face.

  “It’s hard to understand them,” Nicolas said. “But not so hard as with the animals. Mostly they dream about the world out here. And they wonder why so many of the voices they hear are angry and worried. They dream, and they wonder, and then they go back to sleep. And when they wake up they wonder all the same things over again.”

  Maggie laughed. Nicolas chuckled, but his laugh ended in the creases of a frown. “Sometimes I wish I could tell them to stay in there. If they come out here they’ll just join the voices of anger, and worry… and fear.

  “And once in a while,” Nicolas continued, “I hear voices talking, from all over the place. I don’t know who they belong to, I can’t always tell where they’re from. But I can hear them.”

  His voice trailed off and he looked away. “I haven’t told anyone about my hearing for years. Not since I was a child.”

  Maggie wished he would continue, but she sensed he had already said a great deal more than he’d meant to.

  “Where were you going?” he asked, changing the subject abruptly. “Before the hound came, I mean.”

  “To Pravik,” Maggie said. Her expression changed suddenly, and she jumped to her feet. Nicolas was up in an instant, alert as a cat. But only the faint sounds of the night reached his ears as Maggie rushed to the tree where her coat was drying. She reached inside and pulled out a piece of parchment, unrolling it frantically. Nicolas watched curiously. The paper was amazingly strong—the scroll was unharmed, and Maggie breathed a sigh of relief. She realized suddenly that Nicolas was watching her, and that she had cut off their conversation rather rudely. She held up the scroll in explanation.

  “I was going to deliver this to someone,” she said. “It belonged to an old friend. He would have taken it himself, but he died before he could.” Her face clouded over.

  Nicolas nodded. He cleared his throat. “I just want to say that I’d be happy to accompany you back to Bryllan… as far as the boat, I mean. So you won’t have to go alone.”

  Maggie played with the paper in her hands, and she didn’t meet Nicolas’s eyes.

  “I’m not going back to Bryllan,” she said. “Not until I take this where it belongs.”

  “Maggie,” Nicolas began, his voice quiet, “I told you I heard voices before the hound was let loose. Someone sent it after you. They might try again. It can’t be safe for you here.”

  Maggie bowed her head and walked back to the fire. Just as she reached the rim of light, she turned and faced her friend again.

  “I have to take this to Pravik,” she said. “I’m sorry. I can’t explain everything, but I can’t turn back now. Especially not now.”

  She sat down and he joined her. When she looked up
at him, her face was apologetic. “Anyway,” she said, “suppose I did go back to Londren, and they came after me there. I wouldn’t be any safer.”

  “You know your way around Londren,” Nicolas protested, miserably. “You could hide there.”

  They fell silent. Bear nudged up behind them, hanging his massive head over Nicolas’s shoulder.

  “Will you help me find the road to Pravik?” Maggie asked after a long silence.

  “I’ll go with you,” Nicolas said.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “No,” he said, looking intensely at her, “I mean I’ll go with you. To Pravik.”

  “But—” she protested, “you can’t just…”

  “Do you think I have a life here in Galce to hold me back?” he asked. “Bear’s my only family; these forests and the Gypsy caravans are my only home. It’s time we see more of the world anyway. We’ll come with you.”

  Her eyes filled with unexpected tears. “I don’t know what to say,” she started.

  He reached out a hand and touched her shoulder lightly. “Go to sleep,” he said. “I’ll be here in the morning.”

  * * *

  Lord Robert Sinclair, the Laird of Angslie, could not sleep. He had retired to his room on the pretense of a headache. A maid had drawn the bedroom curtains and lit a warm fire, and now he lay stretched out on his bed in his stocking feet. The bed was an unusually long one, to accommodate all six feet, seven inches of the laird’s stature. His sixty years had depleted little of his strength of presence. His muscles were still strong, thanks to long days of wandering in the mountains. His mind was as strong as his body: it was quick, and sharp, and it burned with ideas, and old passions, and longings.

  Yet, for all of that, the laird was a man on whom life dragged wearingly. The things he longed for were beyond his reach, and he had only memories to keep him alive. Memories, and the strange help of a girl who lived on a mountainside nearby.

  It had been nearly a week since he had last seen Virginia Ramsey, and he would go to her soon. He had just spent six days in Cranburgh with people he could hardly tolerate, smiling and simpering until he thought hypocrisy would cause him to explode; vowing every night in his room that he would never go back there, business or no business. He arrived home tense and ready to snap, and then his housekeeper had made her deplorable announcement, looking insufferably proud of herself all the while.